


Dear Allison

by satanspeaking (acklebottomjeans)



Series: Teen Wolf: Europe [1]
Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Post - Allison's Death, Prequel, and badass character development, i don't know how to tag, isaac lahey centric, there's nothing but pain here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acklebottomjeans/pseuds/satanspeaking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short one-shots as Isaac Lahey goes through the various stages of grief. Because she's gone. <i>She's dead</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Happened So Fast

**Author's Note:**

> Well, friends. This hot mess is finally on AO3. For those who don't know me, I'm Kylie, aka someone who should be banned from the allisaac tag on tumblr. Life's a bitch when your favourite character dies. Life's an even bigger bitch when your second-favourite character leaves the show. 
> 
> But that's why writers exist, isn't it? Welcome to my cruel, tortured mind that just so happens to have what I have aptly titled 'chronic angst addiction'. 
> 
> I'd apologize for these ficlets. But that would imply that I'm actually _sorry_.

   he’s not allowed to grieve. 

                               the lingering touch of bare hands   
                               pressed against scarred skin still   
                               burns in the back of his mind.

   he’s not allowed to grieve. 

                               the shy quirk of her lips whenever   
                               he said something amusing is   
                               permanently etched into his being.

   he’s not allowed to grieve. 

                               the gentle gaze filled with uncertainty   
                               whenever he said something crazy   
                               is now forever written upon his skin.

   he’s not allowed to grieve. 

                               to grieve her would be an insult to those   
                               who were truly important to her —   
                               to those she truly loved. 

   he’s not allowed to grieve.  


                               after all —  ** _she was never his to grieve._**


	2. I Can't Do This

              when they wake up, he’s gone.

                                  no one knows when he left.  
                                  no one knows where he went.  
                                   _but everyone knows why._

         & if they bother to look, grief’s scent will be strong.  
             undoubtedly, it’ll lead them right to her bedroom.  
             they’ll find him wrapped up in her blankets,  
             too numb to even shed a tear;  
             knowing that crying would mask her scent.

                                   _a scent that’s going to fade._

     but they don’t look for him.  
     not after they read his message.

                    there’s a single post-it note stuck to the mirror in his room.  
                                         & it only holds four words;

                                                                         ** _i can’t do this._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://allisonbreathe.tumblr.com).


	3. Her Favourite Sweater


    day 002

                is it technically classed as the passing of a day  
                if he is yet to slumber? 

raw & red; his internals seize up on him, the contents of his stomach decorating the white porcelain bowl beside the sink. he can’t remember a time when he hasn’t been seated upon the tiled floor, hands buried tightly within the confines of her favourite sweater.

                           he knows he shouldn’t have taken it.   
                           but he also knows chris wouldn’t fault him for it.  
                           he’s far too busy to  _care._

                                                   inhale;  **exhale.  
**                                                     _memorise her scent._

         memorise it so that it’s impossible to forget,  
         no matter how many days, weeks, months,  _years_  pass.

   commit it to memory.   
   because it’s the most important scent in the universe.

                fairy floss with the barest trace of gun smoke;  
                a combination that would be wrong if it were decorating any other.  
                — yet somehow strikingly fitting for the girl with silver blood.

at the back of his mind, it occurs to him that today is her birthday.  
he remembers the silver locket hidden inside his bedside table,  
wrapped up in crèche paper. he knows she would’ve loved it.  
he knows she would’ve loved what was inside.  
a picture of her mother and father; always watching over her.

               he spares a thought that perhaps he should’ve given it to her earlier.  
               perhaps the locket would’ve done its job and protected her.  
                                                                 _perhaps. perhaps. perhaps._

the door sealed shut with the click of a lock, no one has even attempted to disturb him. and rightfully so. he has a task to complete.

          burying his nose within the violet material, he inhales—  
          yet he is met with the vast expanse of nothingness.

                            perhaps memorising her scent would be far easier  
                                                            **if he hadn’t forgotten how to _breathe_.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://allisonbreathe.tumblr.com).


	4. 43 Hours


    day 004

        he lost a day. he lost an  _entire_  day.  
        — and for the life of him,  _he cannot recall how._

                  all he knows is that the past 24 hours went by in a muffled blur, no points of impact registering with his mind as the minutes ticked on by. 

       an entire day spent staring listlessly out the window, watching everything and nothing all at once. watching the cars. watching the people. watching the parents as they walked down the pathway, hands linking with a tiny brunette swinging back and forth between them. 

                                _that_  is what breaks him out of his daze.  
                                _that_  is what brings him back into reality.

        the painful thought that allison argent wasn’t going to   
       get the opportunity to have children. 

she wasn’t going to teach her daughter how to wield a bow with finesse and skill.  
she wasn’t going to teach her son how to maintain a sense of calm levity no matter how turbulent the situation became around him.

                                      **she wasn’t going to carry on her family’s legacy.**

    the familiar fingers of numbness loosened their tight hold upon his heart. and for days — he hadn’t been able to  _breathe._  he hadn’t been able to do much of anything.

           now? now it hit him. it hit him like a ton of bricks,  
           and he found he could do little else  _but_  breathe.

           it hit him that his stomach was empty; his tongue   
           craving the sweet relief of hydration’s caress.

           it hit him that his hands were shaking; palms decorated   
           with blood from his insistent clenching to stifle the motion.

                         but all of those things amounted to nothing   
                         when compared to the worst realisation of all;

                                                 ——   **allison argent was dead.**

                          allison argent wasn’t going to walk through that door;   
                          brush her fingers along the curve of his neck;  
                          place a lingering kiss upon his spine.

                                allison argent was  **gone.**

                    the walls came crumbling down at once,  
     and just like humpty dumpty, he was left  _shattered_  upon the floor.

          **43 hours;**  
                 that’s all it took.

            43 hours until finally—  
                               _finally,_   **he wept**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://allisonbreathe.tumblr.com).


	5. Poison


    day 005

         for a brief moment in time, he contemplated seeking out peter.   
         he contemplated trying to convince him to teach Scott  
         how to make him  **forget.**

               but the moment was short-lived.  
               because as soon as he truly put some thought into it,  
               he realised that not only would he lose the bad,  
                **he would also lose the good.**

he would lose the smell of gunpowder on a cool winter’s morning.  
he would lose the gentle upturn of pink lips, kissable & warm.  
he would lose the colour of mahogany as it gazed into ice blue.  
he would lose the taste of cotton candy, pressed into his skin.  
but worst of all — he would lose the thump-thump-thumping;  
a heartbeat that always sped up for his attention.

                        he couldn’t lose that.  
                        it was bad enough losing her future.  
                         _he couldn’t lose her past too._

              so instead, he chose to leave the confines of his bedroom,  
              tear tracks a permanent fixture upon his cheekbones.  
              instead, he chose to run beneath moonlight’s glow,  
              letting the beast within take control of what little remained.

                        for he was just a boy.  
                        a scared, weak boy.  
                        a boy whose blood ran black,  
                        whose heart beat slow,  
                        whose presence brought  **death**  
                        to those unfortunate enough to be  _loved_  by him.

     he ran because there was little else he can do,  
     a slave to emotions, a cardinal sin.  
     he ran because it reminded him of her;  
     the way she’d eloquently slip through the under-brush  
     as if she were a ballerina upon a stage.  
     he ran because his life depended upon it,  
     a thread hanging in the balance due to   
     negativity’s blackened hold.

               all thoughts returned to a fixed point;

                         everything he touched —   
                         it always died, without fail.  
                          **isaac lahey was poison.**

   how he wished he’d never forgiven allison argent;  
   how he wished he’d never signed her death sentence;  
   how he wished others would see him  
                                                      _just as he sees himself._

     — not worth saving.  
               &  _definitely_  not worth dying for.

     after all:

                         the world would carry on without isaac lahey.  
                          **but** **the world would end without allison argent.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://allisonbreathe.tumblr.com).


	6. Her Last Arrow


    day 006

             he’s holding it in his hand.

the beginning & the end, clenched carefully between shaky fingers.  
a glowing gemstone amidst the darkness; his most treasured possession.

                     **allison argent’s final arrow.**

                                the arrow that  _saved_  his life &  **ended**  her own.

         why couldn’t she let him die?  
         why did she have to let that arrow fly?  
         why couldn’t she be born a selfish girl,  
         intent on putting her own safety before those around her?

                             why did he have to distract her?

                                        & why  ~~did~~   **does**  he have to  _love_  her?

     fingertips trace along the smooth wooden shaft painted jet black, a colour that seems entirely appropriate for just how ill-willed he feels about this life-altering object. a silver arrowhead pressed carefully with the argent family seal; a seal she’d only just etched into the metallic surface earlier that day.

                 his hands hold the object with the most delicate touch,  
                 afraid that it could  **break**  at any given moment.  
                 his hands hold the object to his steadily beating heart,  
                 knowing full-well that it is  _already_  broken.

      he doesn’t appreciate irony.  
      it’s never been his kind of humour.  
                 & when he thinks about allison argent dying on the day of her graduation, he’s left with the bitter taste of hot blood in his mouth, biting his tongue as punishment.

he loves her so much that he contemplates burying the arrow from head to hilt in his chest, if only it would give him one last moment to gaze upon her face.

            but issac lahey doesn’t believe in heaven  
            — only heaven on earth.

      _she was his heaven on earth._

                       but she’s just another statistic now.  
                       he can already see the newspaper’s emotionless title:

               **one dead.**

   but if he were the reporter, he would know exactly how to amend it:

                   one dead—

                               _& another dead inside._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://allisonbreathe.tumblr.com).


	7. Two Bodies Become One


    day 007

   fingertips aflame; shaky hands caress silken skin.  
   there is so much of it. and yet he wishes for nothing   
   more than to memorise every inch.  
   but he’s nervous. so, so nervous.

                                                  _she can tell._

              “— is this your first time?”

                           her voice is angelic, gentle & firm with its inquisition. yet he is hesitant to answer her honestly, because he’s terrified she’ll send him away if she knows the truth.

        silently thankful that allison argent isn’t a werewolf, he exhales a heavy breath, and mutters the lie with conviction.

                                                         ”—  _no_.”

      & she believes him.

        she believes him as she unbuttons his jeans, the denim fabric shucked and thrown onto the floor.

                  she believes him as she lifts her floral dress over her head, blue eyes hungrily enjoying the show.

       she believes him as he presses kisses along her collar bone, enjoying the heady sighs her pleasure emits.

                 she only falters in her belief when he pauses, nerves shooting through the roof as her bra straps slip off her shoulders. 

                                                      “—  _beautiful.”_

                    he speaks it as if he’s sighing, & perhaps he is. because seeing allison argent — drinking in the warm feminine curves with careful eyes — he’s struck with a firm belief that he’s not the only supernatural entity in the room.

                                because she  **has**  to be an angel.

          the pads of fingers draw red hot   
          lines wherever they can.  
          greedy & needy;  
          selfish & possessive.

                                    he drinks her in like a man lost in the desert, starved of water’s sweet nectar for days; a man desperate with wild blue eyes.

         & he worships her with his lips.  
         he worships her until the curve of her back becomes  _bowed—_  
         until a breathy  _'isaac'_  is pulled involuntarily from her lungs.

                                   when she pins his hands above his head, he allows her the pleasure of dominance, eager & able to please.

           every touch, every taste, every gasp; an intention silently unspoken.

                        **two bodies become one.**  
            & he can’t help but think of that ancient greek myth about god tearing apart a singular soul & placing it in two separate bodies, the pair fraught with the need to find one another before their lifeforce expires.

                        he can’t help but  _feel_  like he’s found that missing piece.  
                        he can’t help but  **wish**  she’s the half to his whole.

          together they come undone; hands linked, mouths inhaling pleasure-bound words — storing them away for the future. because they’ve got a future together. he knows this with complete certainty.

                                  for the first time in his life,  **isaac lahey has faith.**

     he falls asleep with a smile on his face & an arm around her waist.  
     gunpowder & fairy floss tickling his nose as he drifts into unconsciousness.

* * *

           darkness surrounds him when he wakes, the subtle upturning of lips still decorating his features as he remembers the night before. eyes closed, confident hands drift towards her side of bed so that he can wrap his arms around—

                                               **nothing.**

                                                          _absolutely nothing._

             the cold sheets serve as an icy bucket of water thrown over his head, immediately sobering him up. involuntarily, he’s pulled back into the harshness of reality. involuntarily, he’s pulled back into a reality where  **allison argent is dead**.

                             the sound that leaves his mouth is not human.  
                             the sound that leaves his mouth is complete & utter devastation,  
                             the muffled cry of wounded animal. 

               he feels sick. he feels physically ill.

                        because for a minute there, he forgot.  
                        for a minute there — he had his past back.  
                        for a minute there —  **he felt like he had a future.**

        he forgot that he’d gone to sleep clutching her favourite sweater;  
        no doubt the cause of such a vivid recollection of memory’s bitter taste.

                           when did the good become tinged with bad?  
                           when did dreams transform into nightmares?

            isaac lahey used to have faith.

                                                                he should’ve known better.  
                                                                he should’ve learned from his past.

                      he knows his father is laughing.  
                      he can hear the condescending chuckle  
                      as it reverberates through his head.

                                                _stupid. foolish. undeserving_.

       the words affirm his unshakable belief;  
he should’ve been the one to die that night.

                but he isn’t dead.

                                   no, fate is cruel & twisted.  
              prematurely snatching those who breathe life,   
              extending the duration of those who wreak death.

                        allison argent is gone.  
                        his tether is gone.   
                        & he feels it in every atom of his being.

                                                     he feels it as his body closes down.  
                                                     he feels it as her sweater becomes damp with tears.  
                                                     he feels it every day; his heart tearing in two.

        the girl of his dreams is buried six feet under,  
        & he is counting down the days until he joins her.

                               scott mccall calls him the strongest person he knows.  
                              —  _scott mccall hasn’t seen him in days._

          things can change in the blink of an eye.  
          even the strongest people can drown in grief’s river.

                        after all — what’s that saying again?

                                        seven days without allison argent makes one  _ **weak.**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://allisonbreathe.tumblr.com).


	8. Memorandum

     It’s 4:30am when they arrive, the change in temperature stifling from Spring to early Autumn. A hunter & a werewolf, clothed in layers far too extensive for the muggy climate, obvious foreigners  _à la française_. But it doesn’t matter. They didn’t come here to fit in, or parade around wearing the local fashion. They came here for her.

               For Allison Argent & her silver arrows;   
                                   French blood running thick as an indicator of heritage. 

     They’re here in memorandum.  
     They’re here to honour  _their_  fallen hero  
      & a girl they both  **love**  with their  _entire soul_.

                               It’s a thought that sends Isaac’s pulse skittering again — his heart involuntarily clenching. Because never again will he be able to lay his eyes upon warm chocolate on a cool winter’s day. Never again will he be able to clench tiny, calloused hands between long dexterous fingers.

                     Never again will he hear Allison breathing.  
                    — Nor will he be able to remind her to do so.

                                                **But he wishes so badly that he could.**

              Chris becomes aware of the shift in Isaac’s demeanour, a strong hand clenching his shoulder as they make their way through the airport exit, duffel bags hanging off shoulders as they trek.

                              To anyone else looking at them, they undoubtedly look like a father and son on a holiday; the son just a little bit homesick or weary from his flight.

                     If only that were the case.

           ”I’ll get a cab.”

                    The voice is firm, and Isaac nods his agreement, left standing on the pavement as Chris disappears in the flurry of commuters.

                            **&**  if that isn’t symbolism for how quickly people fade out of sight,  
                            _isaac lahey doesn’t know what else could be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://allisonbreathe.tumblr.com).


	9. Teach Me

   Five minutes of silence.  
            Ten minutes of silence.  
                                _fifteen_.  
                                          **Twenty.**

          No matter how much larger the number became,  
          the feeling of desolation remained the same.

                                 She was gone.  _Allison argent was gone._

    Building her a shrine amidst the forests of France —  
    it seemed to serve as a symbol of finality;  
    a violent reminder that Isaac Lahey wouldn’t be able   
    to wake up from this particular breed of nightmare.

                                                                  **Not this time.**

              Silence spanned between the hunter & the werewolf,  
              bitter sweet & remorseful; the unlikely companions   
              no doubt wishing they could’ve done something—   
               _anything_ — to keep her alive.

                               But it was too late. It was already done.

**Allison Argent was no longer a part of their world,**   
_no matter how badly they wished the opposite._

                           The only thing they had left now was her memory.  
                           Her memory, & her  **code.**

               ”I want you to teach me—”

     His speech was shaky, the beta struggling to maintain a firm grip on his vocal chords. And the pain pulsing in his heart? It only made the pronunciation of every word feel foreign, almost as if he were speaking with a tongue made of [lead](http://./). At this point, it wouldn’t surprise Isaac if his body had turned to stone; grief-stricken thoughts seemed to encourage numbness’ approach.

           He was so tired of feeling  _everything_  &  **nothing**  all at once.

                          He wanted what Chris Argent had,  
                          the man standing stoic to his side  
                          as he gazed upon the makeshift  
                          memorial; roots stemming into  
                          the freshly-turned earth of France.

     He wanted to obtain the ability to  
     compartmentalize. He wanted to   
     think methodically; cool & collected  
     despite the situation’s danger.

               He wanted to be like an  **Argent** ;  
               wanted to wield silver as if it were  
               pumping through his blood —  
               wanted to forge his own destiny  
                **&**  carry on the legacy of her code.

Who better to teach him than the one who taught  _her_?

                “—please-  _please_  can you teach me?   
                I need- I just..  _i need to **do**  something_.”

             Bloodshot eyes rimmed red with emotion’s choke watched the older man carefully, hoping he would agree to such an unusual request.

           & when Chris Argent finally gave his nod of confirmation,  
           Isaac exhaled a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding.

The duo returned their eyes to the new tree amongst the forest,  
but Isaac couldn’t help but feel like the tree got a better deal—  
because this sapling would grow & age as the decades passed.  
It would live a long & healthy life, leaves rustling in the wind.

                                                                    ** _just like she should have_**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://allisonbreathe.tumblr.com).


	10. Make Her Proud


    week one

     it’s getting easier. grieving allison argent is already getting easier.  
— or perhaps it’s training’s constant distraction that keeps his ill emotions at bay.

                                  either way, isaac doesn’t have enough time during daylight hours to spare a thought for what could’ve been. he doesn’t have enough time to imagine the way her arms would’ve wrapped around his torso as she helped him adjust his archery posture. he doesn’t have enough time to envision fingertips squeezing his own before placing a chaste kiss on his cheek & encouraging him to release the string.

                 he doesn’t have enough time to think about those things during daylight hours — not with the way chris argent has him on a strict schedule, the hunter wanting to return to beacon hills in just another three weeks. 

                                 but he has enough time to think about those things as soon as his head hits the hotel pillow at night. he has enough time to curl in on himself & cry until slumber claims his shaking body.

                       it should be allison argent that’s teaching him.

     but it can’t be. because she’s  **dead.**

****

                 his training is going remarkably well, & sometimes he spares a thought about how much trust is being placed in him — trust that he’ll keep the argent family secrets close to his heart. there’s a reason hunters are able to stay on par with werewolves when facing one another. there’s a reason hunters have never even considered divulging their secrets to a creature they’re so eager to kill.

                                    isaac knows his werewolf abilities already give him an edge. pairing his unnatural strength & speed with the parrying of knives — it’s a deadly combination. & it’s a great risk on chris argent’s part. 

                 the werewolf can’t imagine his ancestors would be pleased with this unusual turn of events — but chris recognises the potential. chris sees how eager isaac is to uphold his daughter’s legacy.

                                     he couldn’t say no.

                 hours upon hours are spent learning the basics — whether it be surviving a week in the wilderness, or breaking out of binding laced in wolfsbane. isaac is a fast learner, & chris is an even faster teacher. it keeps both of them on their toes.

      he still hasn’t braved the sharp edges of her ringdaggers, though.

                 they remain nestled beneath the spare pillow of his double bed — the side she’d always curl up on whenever she felt the urge to sleep. 

                                  he misses the stark contrast of her faceted personality — the way she’d smile with such an undisciplined fondness, only to turn into a deadly killing machine in all of the time it takes to blink an eye. he misses the way her scent gave away her intent — sweet whenever she was struck by affection — sour whenever she felt a strong inclination to fight. but most of all, he misses the way her heartbeat would pick up at the indication of danger, only to steadily slow down once the battle had started.

                      allison argent knew how to keep her wits about her,   
                      even during the bloodiest battles. of course —   
                      until isaac lahey came along &  _ruined_  it all.

he heard the fluttering heartrate as katanas forced him to his knees.  
he heard the telltale signs of distraction as the final blow was lined up to take him.

                     he heard the pitter-patter of relief when she  _saved his life_.

if she had’ve remained clinically unemotional — she’d still be alive.  
if she had’ve cared little for his own wellbeing — she’d be here. & he’d be dead.

                              how is he supposed to live with that level of guilt?

                                                      honestly?  _he can’t._

                     so he doesn’t deal with it.

instead, he trains. he fights & bleeds & pushes his body to its absolute limits.  
                    because he needs to do this. he needs to earn his right to live.  
                    he needs to make her sacrifice  **worth**  something.  
                    isaac pushes away guilt’s clasp; banks it away for another day.

it’s a single truth acknowledged by lahey & argent alike;

              **nothing**  is more important  
                        than making allison argent proud.

                                                                   **& proud she would be.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://allisonbreathe.tumblr.com).


	11. Dagger Meets Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to hell for this one.

            how many days has it been now?

                                    _seven? nine? twelve? fourteen?_

           he doesn’t know. he’s lost track of the time again; days melding together and hours an indistinguishable blur. nothing is notable. everything is pointless. including his life— if it should even be classed as that any more.

                                 because ‘life’ implies  **living.**  and living is such a foreign, alien concept to the boy with bright yellow eyes.

                                                                 isaac lahey doesn’t live any more.   
                                                                 isaac lahey  **exists.**

     he bides his time as he patiently waits to meet his maker.  
     he bides his time as he impatiently waits to meet his lover.

               shaky fingers clasp the handles of her ringdaggers again,  
               the cold, metallic material always finding its way into his hands  
               every single night — without fail. he enjoys the way they refuse  
               to fit correctly in his hold. he enjoys the way even her  _daggers_  
               reject him. it serves as a gentle reminder that these blades  
               are not his own. these blades are &  _always will be_  hers.

                                                                            **even after her death**.

     in perfect solitude he resides, the motel door shut and locked as moonlight’s kiss      peers through the windows. he suddenly feels very alone. _too alone._

                                   he doesn’t know what else to do.

               "I miss you."

     he hasn’t spoken aloud in days, and his tone certainly reflects that; gruff around the edges; broken in the middle. he wishes she could hear him.

                                                                 perhaps she can.

               "I miss you  _so much_.”

     it’s easier to speak when he feels like no one is listening.

               "— and sometimes I forget. Every morning when I’m only just starting to wake up and my brain is foggy, I always think about what  _we’re_  going to do today.”

     his fingertips dance along the dagger’s blade, uncaring for any harm that might come to him. it’ll heal in a matter of seconds.

                                                                                                _his heart won’t._

               "And I feel so stupid, you know? I make the same mistake  **every. single. morning.**  I let myself believe _i’m going to see you again_.”

     he places the knives down upon the bedside table, fingers immediately moving to rub at his temples as blue eyes remain downcast.

               "Every single morning— just for a second—  _i believe you’re alive_.  
                                                     **And then I remember**.”

     a shaky hand moves to clasp at his chin, fingertips brushing along his jawline as he tries his best not to lose himself completely.

                              he fails.  
                                        horribly.

               "You’re  **dead.**  I watched you die.  _you’re_ —”

     the sudden noise that overwhelms his senses is unusual to his own ears, and for a minute, isaac thinks someone else might be in the room. he thinks he might not be alone. until it dawns on him.

                          _he’s_  the one making those choking sounds.  
                          _he’s_  the one who’s forgotten how to  ** _breathe_.**

               ” _you can take care of yourself._ You can save the  **world**  and  _everyone in it_. You can do  this— you can do  _that_ —but you can’t  **live**!”

                “ ** _oh no_** , you had to go and get yourself  **killed**  while saving a  _stupid,_   **worthless**  boy whose life is so incredibly  _meaningless_  compared to your own! You just  **had**  to do that,  _didn’t you?!_ ”

     he picks up the daggers again, launching them at the motel wall without hesitation. because he is fire. he is anger. his is pain. he is self-destruction.

     and if he wasn’t so incredibly fucked up right now, he’d probably take a moment to feel proud of himself.

               they meet their mark perfectly.  
               they embed themselves into   
               the thin plaster.

                         how symbolic— that they cut so easily—  
                         that they leave a permanent mark;  
                         that they leave a  **scar**  in the wall.

               ” **I hate you**.  _i hate you so much._  I hate you  **so fucking much** , Allison.  _i hate you, i hate you, i hate you_ —”

                                             isaac lahey is a wall.  
                                             allison argent is a dagger.

                                                            and everyone knows what   
                                                            happens to walls when   
                                                            they meet daggers.

                                             they leave scars.

               ”  _i love you. **please come back.**_ ”

                                                            he was doomed from the very start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://allisonbreathe.tumblr.com).


	12. Routine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret writing this one. I regret writing this one so hard.

     isaac lahey never thought himself ritualistic. he never thought of himself as someone dependent on habitual actions. he never thought he’d grow to rely on structure — order amidst chaos.

                        so perhaps it happened accidentally,  
                                   but the beta werewolf was quick to develop a daily routine.

              perhaps it was his only way of coping with the   
              constantly shifting reality around him. 

                              or perhaps he did it because it reminded him of her;  
                              all harsh angles and clever patterns and self-reliance.

      but it didn’t matter  **why.**  
      it only mattered  _'what'._

                      because the routine he’d developed? he couldn’t decide if it was detrimental to his existence, or devastating enough to kill him. the lines blurred so easily now; reality and ~~dreams~~   _nightmares_  seemed indistinguishable.

      it wasn’t unusual, or out of the box. on the contrary — his ordered life seemed to radiate normalcy to anyone from the outside looking in. it seemed to proclaim sanity from the rooftops. it seemed unquestionably average.

     but to those who knew him — knew the real isaac lahey —  ** _they knew._**

                                 they knew that constantly checking his phone wasn’t something he regularly did. they knew that he spent little time learning how to work the interface, or respond to messages sent on a whim.  **they knew that he wasn’t really checking his phone at all.**

                        no, he wasn’t checking for new messages.  
                        it was the  **old**  ones that caught his attention,  
                        his simcard long-since expired because he’d  
                        forgotten to top up his credit before the due date.

isaac lahey was reading the old messages.  
isaac lahey was reading  **her**  messages.

              he spent hours upon hours rereading the texts sent without voice—  
              the texts that once held little meaning to him, perhaps even deemed  
              trivial a month ago. the texts that made him smile; the texts that made  
              him frown; the texts that made him worry; the texts that gave him butterflies.   
 **every single text**.  _not one deleted._  

 

> [Jan 13 | 11:43] Dad’s singing The Beatles in the shower again. He’s definitely not Paul McCartney. Earplugs?
> 
> [Feb 7 | 01:12] Can’t sleep. Want to hang out?
> 
> [Feb 16 | 16:35] This art assignment sucks. Save me.

     he kept them all. he reread them all. he savoured every single one of them.

                             he read them first thing in the morning, seconds after consciousness overtook him. he read them last thing at night, curled up in a bed too big for one person, in a motel too quiet to cry. he read them on the bus, the train, in a taxi; seated in a cafe, a park, a lobby. he read them constantly. and he knew it wasn’t healthy.

                                but he couldn’t stop. he  ** _couldn’t_**  let go.  
                                he couldn’t give up that tiny inkling of  
                                her personality that his phone preserved  
                                with such care. he wasn’t ready to give it up.

                                                         _he probably never would be_.

                 so the day his phone got stolen was the day he  _lost his mind_. the day his phone was stolen was the day his  **sanity**  could no longer be retained.

                  the day his phone was stolen was the day it hit him like a ton of bricks.

     allison argent wasn’t going to come back. and he’d just lost the empty remnants of her voice to a thief who couldn’t have cared less for her existence.

                                     he’d lost all of the stupid photos she’d taken   
                                     while he’d left his phone unattended. he’d   
                                     lost all of the winks, and smiley faces, and   
                                     kisses to mark the end of her message.

                                                                                **he’d lost everything.**

     but worst of all, he’d lost her final text. the text he hadn’t even read before they’d met up outside of the institute, phone on silent and buried within his pockets. he’d lost the message he’d do  **anything**  to have back.

 

> [Mar 17 | 18:43] If anything happens to either one of us today, I want you to know that this— whatever ‘this’ is— is important to me. And I’m going to give it a shot if we both survive, okay? I’m not scared any more. And I know I should probably say this in person, but we’re pressed for time right now. So I just want you to know I care about you, and I want to be with you.  **We can be us.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://allisonbreathe.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & comments always appreciated. Feel free to get mad at me. I thrive on my audience's displeasure xoxo
> 
> You can find me [here](http://malisaac.tumblr.com).


End file.
